chapter 50

“Ready?”

I glance up from the mirror. Staring at myself isn’t going to fix any of the myriad flaws I suddenly find with my appearance, which has been impeccably styled by a gaggle of strangers who brushed and blushed and zipped and tucked me into the regal woman in my reflection.

Clare stands at the door, looking more like a queen than I ever will. She wears a gown with a similar cut to mine, a faux-Tudor look with heavy brocade trumpet sleeves and a tight bodice with a low, square neck. My skirt is a little fuller than hers, and mine is white and gold where hers is pale yellow; when we walk out of my sitting room—currently a staging area for all the preparation that went into my look—we make a swishing sound.

“I’m nervous,” I whisper, as if it’s not a foregone conclusion.

Clare, always the more practical of my two sisters, advises, “Don’t let them see it.”

The lack of comfort is oddly comforting.

In the entry hall of the residence, we’re joined by a retinue of thrall guards, and Tara